Night Drive by Will. F. Jenkins Madge was all ready and in the act of turning out the living room lights when the telephone rang. She picked it up, and Mr. Tabor identified himself. He sounded as if he had a bad cold. Madge barely knew him, but in a small town people don’t stand on ceremony. He said apologetically that his niece Eunice had stopped in town to see him this afternoon, and he’d heard that Madge-he called her Mrs. Haley, of course-was driving over to Colchester tonight. It was an imposition for him to ask, but it would be a great favor if she’d let his niece ride with her. Madge felt uncomfortable-for Mr. Tabor to mention the Colchester road would make anybody uncomfortable-but she said cordially that she’d be glad to give his niece a lift. “I was just about to leave, though” she said. “I hope she can be ready fairly soon.” “She’s ready now, Mrs. Haley,” said Mr. Tabor’s muffled voice over the phone. “She’ll be waiting for you on the porch. I have to leave, so I’ll thank you now, on her behalf.” He hung up, and Madge felt that twinge of uneasiness which comes of being reminded of something one would rather not remember. She turned off the light and went out to the car, feeling queasy. No woman liked to think about Mrs. Tabor before driving a car at night, alone. There was the other girl, too, but it wasn’t quite the same thing. Nobody knew who the other girl was, or how it happened. But Madge had known Mrs. Tabor. The car started briskly and she went two blocks underneath the trees, and one to the right, and there was a lonely looking figure sitting on the steps on Mr. Tabor’s already dark house. As Madge pulled in to the curb, the figure picked up a small suitcase and came forward. Madge opened the right-hand door. “You’re Eunice?” she asked cheerfully. “I’m Mrs. Haley.” “It’s very good of you,” the girl said in a flat voice. “I thought it was a lot for my uncle to ask.” “Nonsense!” said Madge. “I’m glad to have company! Put your bag in the back seat and climb up here with me.” The girl obeyed silently. She was a little angular and a little clumsy. Her hat was severely plain. She wore spectacles that seemed to be tinted, even at night. She sat primly, her hands folded on her lap, as Madge turned and headed out of town. It was really a beautiful night, with all the nice summery smells that make one glad to be alive, and glad that it’s cool and dark. Presently the houses drew back from the road, and street lights ended, and there were fields on either side of the road with dark masses that were woodland beyond them. Madge settled down for the forty-mile run to Colchester. She touched the headlight switch and had bright light for a long way ahead. The road flowed smoothly toward them. But still the thought about Mr. Tabor-Mrs. Tabor, really. She hadn’t know them well, but in a small town everybody knows everybody else to speak to, at least, so Mrs. Tabor’s death had been especially horrible because she was a bride and Mr. Tabor had been so happy and so proud of her. “It’s nice having someone with me,” said Madge. “I really don’t like driving at night. But Sam- my husband, you know- gets into Colchester at ten-ten tonight, and if he waited for a bus he wouldn’t get home until after three in the morning. We have terrible bus service!” The girl was silent for a second, and then said, “Yes.” Her voice was flat and low-pitched. Then she seemed to realize that she sounded curt. She added, “It isn’t bad in the daytime.” “No,” agreed Madge. She was silent for a while and said, “How did Mr. Tabor know I was driving over?” The girl seemed to consider. Then she said, “I guess somebody mentioned it.” “They’d hardly- “Then Madge stopped. She would never speak of the Colchester road to Mr. Tabor, but some people might. “Oh…I got the gas and oil and tires checked today. I mentioned to Bob- the filling-station attendant- why I was being so finicky. I guess that’s the answer.” The girl said, “Probably,” and sat quiet, her hands in her lap. The dotted center line of the highway became a solid streak, and the road made a wide curve. Woodland bracketed it- the air was almost chilly among the trees- and abruptly it was clear again. They were maybe four miles on their way. “Mrs. Haley,” said the girl’s flat voice, “do you carry a pistol, driving at night?” Madge jumped a little. Then she laughed, not quite at ease. “Good heavens, no! Why –“Then she said, “I see. Your uncle thinks women should.” She felt queer. She was going to drive over the highway on which Mrs. Tabor had been killed a year before. There had never been any clue to the killer. It was just assumed that somehow Mrs. Tabor – on her way to meet her husband, too- had been persuaded to stop her car and pick someone up. The car was found, ultimately. It had been sprinkled with gasoline and set on fire, and any clues it might have yielded were destroyed. Mrs. Tabor, herself, had been bludgeoned to death. There were other details, but that was the way the local paper phrased it. And Madge couldn’t understand how her husband kept on living in the same town and in the very house to which he’d brought Mrs. Tabor as a bride. She heard herself saying with morbid interest, “He and Mrs. Tabor hadn’t been married long, had they?” “About three months,” said the girl tonelessly. She added in the same expressionless manner, “We’re near the turn-off, aren’t we?” “Why, yes,” said Madge. She grew confused. One didn’t remember Mr. Tabor’s niece ever visiting him before, and she’d more or less assumed that she was a complete stranger. As far as that went, Mr. Tabor wasn’t a long- time resident himself. He’d come to town a little more than a year ago to accept a rather good position. Three months later he married and brought his bride to a bungalow he’d bought. Only three months later still, Mrs. Tabor drove on her way to Colchester one night, but never reached her destination. Madge shivered at the thought of what she’d heard about that killing. Her most vivid single memory of Mr. Tabor was the first time she’d seen him after the murder. He was a small man, and he’d looked shrunken and mummylike. But he didn’t 2 leave town. He stayed on, living in the house he’d spent him honeymoon in. Madge couldn’t understand his doing that. The car came to the turn-off. There was nothing conspicuous about it. It was just a secondary road- well-paved enough – that branched off the main highway and wound across-country to Colchester. In thirty-five miles there was one crossroads store and maybe four or five farmhouses which could be seen from the highway. Most of the road’s length ran through woodland. Madge turned into it. Within a quarter of a mile tall and columnar tree trunks engulfed the road. The air was fragrant with the aromatic smell of dropped pine tags and cones. It was cooler, too. But one no longer had the feeling of being in empty open space. Above and ahead there was a narrow ribbon of sky in which stars shone brightly. The headlights stabbed on before and showed the pavement, and pine tree trunks alongside, and more pine tree trunks. There was a bare screen of underbrush at the road’s edge. The angular figure beside Madge said, “Lonely out here, isn’t it?” Madge pressed harder on the accelerator. The car picked up speed. “One thing’s certain,” she said, trying to smile, “nobody could make me stop to pick them up on this road!” “Mrs. Tabor- Aunt Clara, I suppose I should say,” said Eunice without emotion “didn’t pick people up. But that night she did.” Madge set her lips and drove. Presently she said awkwardly, “I wouldn’t as ordinarily, Eunice, but has Mr. Tabor ever gotten any idea of who-er-killed Mrs. Tabor?” “There’s always the chance that the man who did it will be caught.” There was a slight pause. “Another girl was killed six months later, you remember,” the flat voice impassively. Madge suddenly regretted deeply that she had not made some excuse to avoid having Mr. Tabor’s niece ride with her. It was bad to be reminded of Mrs. Tabor. But to be reminded – and at the same time- of that other battered, half burnt body of an unknown girl made it worse. The girl had surely been murdered somewhere, but nobody knew where, or by whom, or even when. Hunters had found the remains of a huge bonfire deep in the woods. There was a young girl’s body in the ashes. The police were never able to find out even so much as her name. All that was known was that she had been dead six weeks or so when her body was found.